“Why? Well, I told him as much as I thought was good for him to know!”
“It seems hardly fair to him,” I muttered. “He’s handicapped.”
“Less than if I hadn’t told him what I did. I’ve helped him. For instance he’s got the Barker I.O.U. and the cigar stub. He’ll probably get to work on the latter at once.”
This last remark was a wonderfully good shot on Anthony’s part. For Inspector Baddeley went straight into the village to the larger of the two tobacconists that supplied Considine and its adjoining district with its nicotine needs. This establishment was kept by a large florid-faced man—Abbott, by name. Baddeley handed over the object of inquiry.
“Could you possibly tell me what brand of cigar this is, Mr. Abbott?”
Abbott took it, after the manner of a connoisseur. Felt it—then smelt it. Then shook his head. “Afraid not, sir. But it’s just a common one. Quite ordinary—what we in the trade would call a four-penny or five-penny smoke—sold in a ‘pub’ very likely. But I couldn’t give the brand a name.”
“I see! Sold many yourself lately?”
Abbott’s answer was a decided negative.
“Don’t sell a cigar once a week now, down here! It’s all tobacco and cigarettes with the villagers. Afraid I can’t help you there.”
The Inspector thanked him and withdrew.